


In this, as in all things

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:51:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after the full moon has taken on a new shape now that they're older.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In this, as in all things

**Author's Note:**

> with thanks to dogeared for beta!

The morning after the full moon has taken on a new shape now that they're older. There's peace in Beacon Hills, which means Derek's unlikely to come home with injuries that take hours to heal. What scratches and bruises he sustains, running wild in the preserve for the sheer pleasure of it, are gone before Stiles sees them. Derek runs to shake the cobwebs from his system, to enjoy the pull of the moon in ways he never could when they were younger. And now, the mornings after, he sleeps.

It's the one time of the month that Stiles can guarantee he'll wake before Derek, when he's the one who has to work up enthusiasm for leaving the warm cocoon of their bed and the skin-soft touch of another's body. He keeps his groans and mutterings inside to himself – it's only one day of the month, after all – and slips out from beneath the covers as quickly as he can so as not let the cooler air of the bedroom disturb Derek's sleep. Derek's sacked out, oblivious to everything, hands tucked under his pillow, and Stiles can't help himself – he stands and looks his fill, feels wonder at the simple satisfaction of seeing Derek whole, and happy, and sleeping deeply in the bed they share. He smiles to himself, pulls on a t-shirt and sweatpants, shuffles to the bathroom and shuts the door.

He takes a leak, washes his hands, looks at himself in the mirror for a second. He's forty-five, and has the laugh lines to prove it – the worry lines, too, between his eyebrows, legacy of a time when his friends were never safe. His hair isn't graying yet, but it hasn't lost its ability to devolve into utter chaos while he sleeps. He tugs at it ineffectually, gives up after actually making it worse, yawns fit to swallow the world, and heads downstairs.

Derek will wake up hungry – Stiles learned this before they ever moved in together, when their relationship was new and they moved in cautious circles around each other, figuring out touch and sentiment and boundaries and delight. Stiles would too often spend the night awake, Derek's hand clasped in his, waiting and watching while healing happened, Derek making soft, pained sounds from behind gritted teeth, exhausted, troubled, wishing he could make things more right. When he'd slip into sleep it was restless, transitory, and he'd wake Stiles before dawn when he haltingly got out of bed, went to the kitchen and began to make food. He wouldn't accept help, not at first, not then, not until the day Stiles summoned up his courage and pressed himself to Derek's back, arms wound around his body, and kissed the bumps at the top of his spine. "Let me," he'd murmured, and Derek had relaxed in his arms, sheepishly turned and offered Stiles the spatula for the eggs.

Stiles reaches for the eggs in the refrigerator, now – for the bacon and the peppers, the bread and the cheese. He sets the bacon to frying, chops the peppers and whips the eggs, turns the coffeepot on while everything cooks. It's the scent of breakfast that will finally wake Derek, the promise of coffee that will bring him downstairs. Stiles hears his footfalls, turns with a quip on his tongue about the men who run with wolves, but it dies when he sees Derek knuckling at one eye to scrub away sleep, his sweatpants riding low on his hips, his shirt somewhere else.

"Hey," says Stiles, his voice catching like he's 18 and trying for cool, missing by a mile. Derek smiles and Stiles feels it like a punch to the gut – it still steals his breath, though it's been meant for him alone for more than twenty years.

"Hey," says Derek, and crosses the kitchen, crowding up into Stiles' space, kissing him softly. Stiles thumbs the crinkles beside Derek's eye, lets his fingers drift through the silver at Derek's temples, says, "it's almost ready," and shoves Derek ineffectually toward the coffeepot. It's like trying to move a mountain, and Stiles huffs good-naturedly, says, "you want burned eggs?" and Derek smiles again, lazily, happily, and Stiles feels his stomach flip.

They eat at the kitchen counter, trading stories about the night before – Isaac coming across an actual mountain lion in the preserve; Derek winning a race to lookout point over Scott; Isaac tripping, like always, and this time ending up face down in a stream. Stiles tells Derek about the latest manuscripts he pulled from the slush pile, the one gem he found, how he'll make someone's day later that morning when he calls her agent. They eat – Derek twice as much as Stiles – and they drink their coffee, and at some point Stiles wanders to the porch to pick up the paper, and he generously lets Derek read the sports section first.

By eleven the paper is dissected and spread all over the counter, there's been a second pot of coffee, and two rounds of toast. Derek yawns and scrubs his hands through his hair, says, "I need a nap," and Stiles doesn't poke fun or make jokes about werewolves over fifty, just goes with him, stripping off his clothes and letting them fall on the bedroom floor, climbing back into bed and scooting in close.

Derek kisses him – cups his jaw and runs a thumb over the grain of Stiles' stubble, coaxes his lips apart and shivers at the touch of Stiles' tongue. Stiles makes a small, pleased noise, kisses back, lets his hand smooth the length of Derek's spine, cupping his ass, insinuating a leg between Derek's thighs. They rock together, kissing lazily, hands tangling as Derek pushes Stiles onto his back. He works his way down Stiles' body as if there's nowhere he'd rather be, his lips at Stiles throat, his tongue working Stiles' nipple, his teeth grazing right below Stiles navel, making him swear and buck. When he takes Stiles in his mouth Stiles closes his eyes, stretches beneath the hold Derek has on his hips, moans softly as Derek tongues at his head. It's languid and maddening and Stiles wants it to last, wants to savor the soft, wet heat of Derek's mouth for fucking ever, kicks a foot when Derek sucks him hard, cards his fingers through Derek's hair. "I want . . . " he pants, looking down at Derek working him slowly, and groans, bites his own lip. His head thuds back against the pillow. "I want you," he manages, and he cries out softly when Derek pulls off him with wet, obscene pop.

Derek kisses him, fumbles with the drawer on the bedside table, pulls out the lube and dribbles it over his fingers, warming it between his hands. Stiles is trembling before Derek slides one long finger inside him, before Derek kisses him again, less focused, a little sloppy, and it's electric, making Stiles arch beneath him, looking for friction wherever he can. Derek's patient, opens him up with two fingers, three, and by the fourth Stiles is panting, hands hooked around the headboard, making soft noises every time Derek pushes home. "C'mon," he manages. "Want you." And Derek slicks up his cock, lines himself up, and pushes slowly inside.

Stiles loves the sex they have, no matter how they have it – frantic, against the wall after days apart; laughing, fumbling for each other, destroying the sheets; driving each other to the edge and then stilling, making each other wild. But this – he moans as Derek thrusts inside him – is his favorite, the slow, intimate slide of their bodies the morning after the moon, the pressure of Derek's dick, the dizzying quality of their kisses, their uneven breath. When he comes, it's with Derek coaxing him, telling him he wants to watch, promising he'll put him together after he falls apart, and when he surfaces, it's with Derek shaking above him, thrusting once, twice, and empting himself with a cry, collapsing at Stiles' side when his arms won't hold him anymore.

Stiles turns to tuck himself against Derek's side, hums as Derek's arm slides around him. "I love you," he murmurs, and laughs as Derek reaches for the Kleenex as a response, patiently lets Derek clean them both up before he sets his chin on Derek's chest and waits for a reply. 

"What?" Derek asks, smiling, teasing him, and Stiles leans in to kiss his lush, swollen mouth.

"Asshole," he mumbles, and lets his head drop to Derek's shoulder, lets his eyes close, drowsy as hell. He feels a brush of lips to the crown of his head.

"Love you, too," Derek whispers, and Stiles smiles, hooks his arm across Derek's body and falls asleep again, sated and content.


End file.
